


Wasn't Ready At All

by BananaStickers



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Apology Sex, M/M, Praise Kink, Rope Bondage, gentle domination
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2018-05-04
Packaged: 2019-05-02 02:52:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14535096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BananaStickers/pseuds/BananaStickers
Summary: When Tom Wilson hits Brian Dumoulin a little high and knocks him out of the game, he knows he should apologize.Tom Wilson has a unique way of saying sorry.





	Wasn't Ready At All

**Author's Note:**

> First, a visual of the boys if you're not familiar with them:
> 
> [Tom Wilson](https://i.imgur.com/11Nn1TR.jpg)  
> [Brian Dumoulin](https://i.imgur.com/XfMwFHV.jpg)  
> [Bonus of Dumo and his dog, who makes a guest appearance here](https://i.imgur.com/JBQJ88i.jpg)
> 
> This fic has rope bondage and references two ties, the dragonfly (arms) and futomomo (legs). Rather than trying to extensively explain them, I figure a visual guide is easier.  
> [Dragonfly](https://i.imgur.com/d3BBwvj.png)  
> [Futomomo](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/CDzI8rQVAAAfhsX.jpg)
> 
> Title is from an interview with Dumo about Tom's hit on him.

The press is the worst part about it all, Tom Wilson thinks. Every time someone gets injured on some play that Tom is involved in - and look, it’s fucking _hockey_ , that’s gonna happen - it’s all anyone wants to talk about. Is Wilson gonna be suspended? What’s the Department of Player Safety gonna say?

Tom Wilson, do _you_ think you’re a dirty player?

Well, nobody’s ever asked him that, not in so many exact words, but the essence is there. He tells the press truthfully that he didn’t mean to injure Brian Dumoulin, didn’t see how he could have avoided the hit. Anyway, Tom got his bell rung, too. He’s just made of slighter stronger stuff than the Pens’ defenseman, is all.

He doesn’t say that last part out loud, but it’s true.

Whatever. The press, the opposing fan base and coaches, they can demonize him all they want to. His conscience is clear. See, Tom Wilson makes amends, and it’s not by offering vapid sound bites to reporters or a half-assed text apology like some guys do. No, Tom makes sure to apologize in person.

It’s not the kind of apology that’s fit to talk about in public, but it’s very effective. Most of the times, he’s naked. Most times, but not all; occasionally he’s fully dressed, on his knees, mouth full of cock. But Tom prefers naked, because that means he’s getting sex, and sex is always better than giving a beej as far as he’s concerned.

Tom’s favorite encounters with guys he’s wronged are those where he’s not sure if he’s apologized or just gloated, afterwards. Those ones that end up with him getting fucked, or sometimes pounding the other guy depending on their preference (Tom is a gentleman, and always lets them choose; it _is_ an apology, after all), and both of them are snarling insults and leaving scratches down each others’ backs. _Fuck you; no, fuck **you.**_

But not every man enjoys that. Call Tom Wilson a lot of things, but a lousy lover he is not. Anyway, it’s an apology, so he ought to do what the other guy likes, he figures. Tom’s versatile. He can be a lot of things, and has been: a brash dom, a begging sub, and everything in between. The real test is trying to figure out what the other guy likes. He owes one of his apologies to Brian Dumoulin, but he doesn’t know shit about Dumo except what his eyes tell him. Brian’s his size, big, and decently easy on the eyes. Heavy on the ice but soft when he talks. He’s paired with Kris Letang as his D partner and sometimes Tom catches them grinning on the ice at each other and wonders if there’s something there.

He sort of hopes not. Letang’s a fiery little Frenchie asshole and doesn’t seem the type to share.

Luckily, he has two ex-Penguins on his team in Brooks Orpik and Matt Niskanen. Tom supposes he could ask them about it, but there’s always a risk one of them will warn Brian, and Tom _loves_ the element of surprise. Showing up unannounced at the guy’s house if he’s not married, or waiting around outside the locker room post-game. Watching the man’s expression change from anger to confusion and shock to - hopefully, usually - lust. If they don’t know he’s coming, they can’t plan for it, and that’s usually better for all parties involved.

So, instead of taking the direct route, Tom waits til Nisky is busy with the press after practice and swipes his phone, sneaking into one of the trainer rooms with it. He’s got a knack for passwords, and honestly most of the boys just use 5-5-5-5 or 1-2-3-4 as their codes, because they’re damn idiots. It takes him four tries to figure it out, but he cracks it, 1-9-8-6, the year that Nisky was born.

Idiot, yep, confirmed.

First thing he does is look for a contact for Dumo, and success, there it is. Phone number _and_ address, nice. Tom exports it to his phone and deletes evidence of the transfer.

Next he heads into Nisky’s email account and searches ‘Dumoulin’. No strings found, but when he changes it to just ‘Dumo’, there’s a few hits. Matt seems to be the type to think that Gmail’s nearly unlimited storage just means you never delete anything, which is Tom’s favorite kind of guy, and there’s an email from 2014 that is _very_ interesting. It’s from the golden boy himself, Crosby.

_Alright boys, it’s the first year I can remember that the rookie party is going to have a representative for every position. I’m fairly excited and you should be, too. Flower - you got Zatkoff, no more needs to be said there. D corps, you boys have TWO rookies with Olli and Dumo. Forwards…_

Tom skims the rest of it. Not a good crop of forwards that year, he thinks. Who the hell is Adam Payerl? But the bottom is the real interesting part.

_Remember: consent is important. Hazing like the old days doesn’t cut it anymore. Yes, they’re rookies, and we give them hell, but this is team bonding above all else._

Tom wonders what sort of ‘team bonding’ requires explicit consent. He’s got a pretty good idea of it.

Skimming through the emails around the date, it takes Tom a few minutes, but he finally finds an email from Nisky to Kris Letang. _Party_ is all the subject says, and the email text:

_Vid as requested. How was Olli? You owe me that vid, remember to send_

There’s a video attachment. Again, he forwards it along to himself and then deletes evidence that he did so. Based on the clock, that’s pretty much all he has time for before Nisky notices his phone is gone, so he heads back into the locker room and shoves Matt’s phone under his locker, on the floor. Just in time, too; Nisky comes strolling out of the shower, towel hung low, scowl on his face.

“What’s wrong?” Tom asks him.

“Can’t find my phone,” Matt says. “I swear it was in my pocket.”

Tom bends down, pretends to squint. “Yo, that it on the floor?”

Matt ducks down, relief written on his features, phone clutched in his grasp. “Shit, yeah. Must have knocked it over. Thanks, Wilso. Good eye.”

Tom winks, making finger guns at Nisky. “Anytime, bro.”

~~~~~

The video is better than Tom could ever have dreamed of. It gives him a brand new and very interesting perspective on Nisky and Brooks Orpik (as well as the entire Penguins organization), shows Tom exactly what Dumo likes, and it’s a pretty decent porn on top. He pretty much couldn’t have asked for a better video than what he got. Sometimes, the hockey gods are good to him.

By the time the video starts, the Penguins have already separated into positions, because Tom doesn’t see any sign of Crosby or Malkin or any of their little bitch forwards. It’s just the D corps, and it looks like a typical frat boy initiation, on first glance. The vets make the rookies do shots. The vets make the rookies kiss. The other rook with Brian is Olli Maatta, and they kiss sweetly, almost tenderly. Dumo cups Olli’s face and Olli winds an arm around Brian’s waist and the vets hoot and holler and give them all sorts of shit about it. Tom sort of wishes they’d let ‘em go, but they get yanked apart fairly quickly.

Next, they both get tied up. It’s mediocre ropework, but the bonds at least are appropriate for it, a nice nylon instead of shitty cotton rope.

Then there’s a discussion about who gets what rookie and for how long while Dumo and Olli shift and fidget and look about as uncomfortable and awkward as a man can get. Letang demands Olli first, and nobody argues with him, but that leaves a big discussion about Dumo. Tom whistles when he notices it, and a few minutes later Brooks finally notes it, too:

“Shit, boys,” he barks, eyes wide, “Dumo is _into_ this.”

It’s true. Brian has a very obvious bulge pressing against his pants. He’s crimson with embarrassment, and Tom amends his previous thought about looking awkward. _Now_ Dumo is the pinnacle of embarrassment. He looks like he wants to turn invisible or drop dead on the spot.

“That’s your thing, Brooksie,” Letang declares, grabbing Olli by the lapels and starting to tug him away, off screen. “Just don’t ruin him for anyone else, eh?”

Tom wonders what exactly Brooksie’s _thing_ is, and Dumo on screen is obviously wondering the same, eyes wide as saucers. They get impossibly wider as Orpik moves off-screen and grabs something that Tom can’t see. “Uh. Um...what…” Brian stammers, shrinking back.

Brooks comes back with a paddle and a shark grin. “It’s okay, Dumo,” he declares. “Nothing wrong with enjoying a little bondage S&M.”

“But I, uh. I don’t - “

“Obviously you do,” Brooks cuts him off with a pat to Brian’s groin. He flinches, jerks back. “No sense in trying to deny it.”

Tom’s been in plenty of _bondage S &M_ scenes, and he can tell pretty quickly that Brian isn’t actually into it. Almost feels bad for the kid, because Brooksie’s not the sharpest tool in the shed and he doesn’t get it. Instead, Orpik gets him over his knee, and gets in almost ten solid _thwacks_ with the paddle on bare ass, Dumo’s sweatpants pulled down, before someone finally, finally notices. Of all people, it’s Nisky. “Hey, man,” Matt cuts in with a frown. “I don’t actually think Dumo likes that.”

Brian’s face is downturned, away from the camera, but it nearly takes Tom’s breath away when he looks up. He’s flushed a deep, blotchy red, and his lower lip is shiny with blood from where he’s bitten it up. The video is high def enough that Tom can see twin tear tracks on his cheeks.

“The fuck,” Brooks complains. “He was _hard._ You saw.”

“You can like getting tied up but not beat, man!” Matt steps in, helps Dumo to his feet. He goes, shaking like a leaf. “That right, Dumo? The ropes are okay, but not the paddle?”

Brian nods his head, silently, blinking away another tear.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Brooks snarls. “Fucking rookies. Tell me this shit!”

“We’re the ones that are supposed to get consent. Like, that’s on us,” someone points out - Tom squints - it’s Paul Martin, he’s pretty sure.

“You know what, why don’t you boys all get out and go see what Tanger is up to with Olli,” Matt growls, waving them off. “I’m taking Dumo upstairs.”

There’s a little bit of protest, but Niskanen approaches the camera, grabs it. Tom can hear Matt dismissing his teammates again, and the camera shakes wildly; Nisky is obviously taking the camera, and Dumo, somewhere else.

When the camera is set back down and comes back into focus, they’re in a bedroom. It’s a nice bedroom. Not like, Mario Lemieux fuck-you career money kind of nice, but definitely Crosby level nice. Tom wonders if Captain Canada knows that his team’s rookies get spanked in his living room. Tom wonders if he likes it. Encourages it. _Participates_ in it, perhaps, with the forwards rookies.

Very interesting, indeed.

“Hey bud. It’s cool,” Nisky’s telling Dumo, pressing his palm to Brian’s face, wiping away his tears. “That was shitty, and that’s on us. Why don’t I undo these ropes and you tell me what you like, and I make it up to you?”

Brian takes a deep breath. “Don’t have to undo them,” he says, glumly. Tom can tell he’s still embarrassed about this whole thing.

“No?”

“Naw. I mean, you can if you want.”

“Dumo,” Nisky says, gently, kneeling down by Brian’s feet with an encouraging smile. “You tell me what _you_ like. I know, I know, it’s a rookie party, but I think you already got punished enough, don’t you? So it’s time for your reward. Tell me, huh? You like being tied?”

Brian pauses for a long moment, but finally nods. “Tied, or...held down, but. Not, like, pain. Or spanking, or hurting. I just like being touched. And, uh…”

“Yeah?” Nisky gives Dumo a little encouraging pat.

“Uh.” Brian’s blush is back, but he continues. “Being told I’m, y’know. Good? Like, praise sort of stuff?”

“Huh.” Matt looks intrigued at this information. “Okay. Maybe we can untie you just for the moment, get you naked - if you’re okay with that, I mean - and then tie you back up and I can do all that stuff? If you want.”

Brian squints at him. “You don’t think it’s dumb?”

“I don’t think it’s dumb.” Nisky lifts up, gives Brian a long, open-mouthed kiss. The wound that Dumo bit into his mouth from the spanking is open again when Matt pulls away, and they both have a little blood on their mouths. Tom hisses at the sight and pops open the button on his jeans, unzips and rubs his palm along his cock. Finally, it’s getting good.

In Tom’s opinion, Nisky’s not really good at the whole praise kink thing, and he’s especially terrible at retying the knots. Matt ties Brian’s hands and feet together, too loose, and then jerks him off while telling him what a solid defenseman he’s going to be. It’s all very sloppy, but Dumo looks thrilled, and he bucks up and comes like a damn porn star, slutty little moans of pleasure and come shooting up so high it lands on his own chest, and there’s a lot of it.

Tom comes, too, jerking himself off while he watches the video. He wants to hear those whore moans out of Dumo’s mouth himself, and if Brian came that hard from the shoddy work from Niskanen, well, Tom is gonna blow Dumo’s damn _mind._

He cleans himself up and exits the video, saves it for later. You never know when you’ll need something like that, he figures. Maybe next time he gets ahold of Nisky’s phone, he’ll see if he can find that Olli Maatta video that Letang was supposed to send over, too.

~~~~~

Tom Wilson is pretty good at knots. He was a Scout, after all - very briefly, before hockey consumed his youth - and in his adulthood he’s had plenty of reasons to use knots, too. Nevertheless, he practices on the plane ride to Pittsburgh, with a short nylon cord, twisting a zipsnare and a single column tie and a half hitch until he can do them quickly and with little thought to the process. Nobody asks questions. They have long since learned to leave Tom alone with whatever weird shit he’s doing. Still, Ovi pauses by Tom’s seat on his way down the aisle, watches him for a long moment before moving on with a low chuckle.

Tom is pretty sure Ovi is one of the few guys that gets what he does. Hell, he’s always sort of suspected Alex has his own _special_ way of interacting with the other team captains. Tom wonders what Ovi did with...or perhaps _to_...Nick Foligno, after the first round.

Wonders what he might do to Crosby after this one.

Someday, he’ll figure it out. For now, he closes his eyes and starts on another half hitch practice.

~~~~~

Tom double checks the address he stole from Nisky’s phone before he goes there. Last thing he wants is to end up knocking on some random yinzer’s door with a bunch of bondage ropes. ( _Yinzer,_ near as Tom can tell, is a term for ‘Pittsburgh asshole’, which is sort of redundant in his mind.) But, either Nisky has correctly updated the address or Dumo hasn’t moved since his rookie year, because his internet sleuthing tells him it’s correct.

Ovi lets him leave after practice without having to enter the media scrum. Alex definitely gets him, Tom thinks again. The ropes are safely stuffed in a drawstring bag with some lube and condoms, and Tom has made sure to wash up well. The only thing the video last night didn’t show is whether Dumo is a top or bottom, so he’s prepared for either. He calls an Uber; it’s a short ride to the upscale townhouses where Brian lives.

The only good thing about it still being so cold in late April - seriously, what the hell - is Tom has this amazing long sleeved striped shirt that hugs and hangs in all the right places, and with the weather it’s not too hot to wear it. He calls it his panty-dropper, although it drops a lot more types of underwear than that (although if boys _want_ to wear panties, well, Tom has absolutely no problem that that). Dumo doesn’t have a reputation as easy, so Tom figures he needs to put a little effort into the seduction. That’s not a problem. Tom likes this game, likes the challenge.

He raps on the door and hopes Brian isn’t the type to day drink at a bar with teammates. That usually doesn’t happen in the playoffs, but you never know.

The door opens, slowly, just a crack. Dumo’s confused expression peeks out at Tom. He must have looked through the peephole first, because he’s already on high alert. “What the hell?”

“Hello,” Tom peers through the small opening at Dumo, gives a bright smile. “Yeah, you saw correctly, it’s me. Look, I wanted to talk. Apologize. Can I come in?”

“What? No. You can apologize from right there.”

Tom pouts. This is not going well. “C’mon, man. It’s _cold_ out here.” He hugs his arms around himself and gives an exaggerated sort of shiver. Dumo seems like the polite type, but the ploy doesn’t seem to be working; the door stays barely cracked.

Suddenly, there’s a low, gruff series of barks and bays. “You have a dog?!” Tom asks, eyes lighting up. “Oh my _God_ , lemme see. Please?”

That, finally, does the trick. Dumo sighs and opens the door a little wider, bending down to restrain the canine. It’s a squat, thick English bulldog wearing a pink flower on her (well, Tom assumes it’s a _her_ ) pink collar. She strains frantically against the hold, trying her best to get to Tom. He leans down and Dumo lets her move forward a few inches to cover his face in sloppy kisses.

“Who’s this?” Tom laughs at the lick assault on his face. “Who’s a good girl?”

“This is Roo,” Dumo tells him, and there’s a subtle note of pride in his voice. “She _is_ a good girl. C’mon, Roo, don’t be rude.” He drags her back a little, and she still wiggles joyously. Tom takes the opportunity to step inside and close the door behind him.

“Can I wash my face?” It’s only polite, Tom figures, based on where he wants his face to be soon. Dumo’s still suspicious, but points in a direction which is clearly the kitchen. When Tom gets back, Roo is behind a baby gate, making little huffs of agitation that she can’t get more attention from her visitor.

“So what do you want?” Dumo asks, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorway. For not expecting a visitor, he looks pretty good, and Tom gives him a very blatant once-over. Dumo’s eyes widen; he obviously noticed.

“I told you. Came to apologize. See, I know I have a reputation - “

Dumo snorts, softly, eyes coming up in not-quite an eyeroll, but close.

“ - but I didn’t mean to hurt you. I swear it. Just wasn’t able to get out of the way in time. I got hit pretty good, too, but it sucked seein’ you down on the ice with your bell rung, man.”

“Okay. Well.” Brian gestures to the door. “You apologized, thanks, you can go now.”

“I didn’t apologize _yet._ Words don’t mean shit. I’m more of an action kind of guy.” Tom grins, struts over towards Dumo, who pulls himself upright and stares at the approaching man like he’s watching an incoming train and he’s stuck on the tracks.

He wants to take a step backwards, Tom can tell, but forces himself to stay still, even as Tom invades his personal space. “What the hell,” he mutters, licking his mouth. Tom watches that long tongue dart out, wet his plush pink lips and the tips of his already-impressive mustache and beard, and wonders what it’s going to feel like on his cock.

“Look, do you know how hot you are?” Tom asks, gently splaying his palm on Dumo’s chest, groaning like he’s wanted to touch for _ages_ and is finally being rewarded. “Actions, not words, right? Let me make it up to you. Let me _worship_ you, Brian.”

Dumo swallows, audibly. Tom must have chosen his words well, because Brian isn’t pulling back or telling him off. Instead, there’s a hot red flush that’s creeping up his neck and into his cheeks. Tom leans in again, voice dropped to a whisper. “Nobody will ever know. Our little secret. I just couldn’t resist the chance to make things right with the best Penguins’ defenseman.”

“Me?” Dumo asks, and his voice is low and raw.

“You,” Tom agrees, his other hand going gently to Dumo’s hip. “So fucking underrated, but you keep that team together. I don’t know why you don’t get more attention.” He fits his jaw against Dumo’s ear, breath puffing hot, feeling a visceral shudder go through him. “God, you’re gorgeous.”

Brian makes a little whine when Tom kisses the spot under his ear, right behind his beard, and holy shit he’s so _easy_ for it. He does it again, another kiss, just to hear that sound out of Dumo’s mouth. “I love those noises,” he tells Dumo, truthfully, and another shudder runs through him. He grabs onto Tom’s shirt, almost like he has to hold on to something. “So is that a yes?”

“Fine,” Dumo clips out, like he has to get the word out fast before he can change his mind.

“Great. Now, this _is_ an apology, so we’re gonna do what you like, and what you want. However, I came prepared with a little bit of research.” Tom grabs Dumo’s wrists, gently pushes them back against the wall, slightly over his head, pins them there. Dumo doesn’t resist, letting them be pinned, but his skittish wide eyed expression is back again. “Oh, don’t look like that, darling. I know it’s impossible to trust a one-night stand with your pleasures. But I’m different. Hell, you’ll see me tomorrow for the game, right? I’d say I hope you’re playing, but we have a _much_ better chance of winning without you because you’re so damn good,” Tom says, watching Dumo’s Adam’s apple bob when he swallows.

“I - I, uh. I dunno.”

“I have ropes in my bag.” The drawstring bag is still hanging off Tom’s back, but he can feel their weight inside, a nice solid reminder of what he’s here for. “I’ll get fired and blacklisted if I hurt you, y’know. Either before or after your entire team jumps me and beats the shit out of me, I dunno. I’m not just some _stranger.”_

Dumo flicks his gaze up to where Tom’s holding his wrists. “How do you know all this?”

“We got some mutual coworkers. I have my ways. And I’m sorry. It’s a little intrusive, right? I know.” Tom nudges Dumo’s chin up with his nose so he can kiss a line down his jaw, lips buzzing against his beard. “I just want to be prepared to make you feel good.” Tom pulls back, looks Brian in the eye, very serious. “You deserve it.”

“Fuck,” Brian breathes out at that last bit, so soft that Tom’s tempted to think he imagined it.

“Our secret,” Tom promises again, surging forward and capturing Dumo’s mouth with his.

He’s already mentally agreed to this, Tom can tell, by the way the kiss goes. Dumo opens his mouth eagerly to the probing tongue, gives a soft little moan when Tom licks inside. He’s not aggressive, though, just lets Tom ravish his mouth, willing and pliant in his hands. So easy for it, Tom thinks again, so cooperative. He doesn’t even complain when Tom nips his lower lip and tugs. “Ropes?” Tom asks, and now Dumo nods.

“Please?”

“You ask so nicely, sweetheart,” Tom says sincerely, and Dumo flushes with pleasure, a slight upturn of his mouth in a smile. “Stay right there for me, okay?”

Brian takes the request literally when Tom pulls his hands away, keeps his own arms above his head where they were just pinned. God, in the right hands, the right training, Dumo would make the best little sub. Tom’s willing to bet he’d enjoy spanking, or even a good whipping, under the right tutelage, the right dom.

It won’t be Tom Wilson that trains him, however. Too damn bad. Such wasted potential. He’ll take what he can get here, though. He pushes aside the lube and condoms - doesn’t want to reveal those quite yet, doesn’t want to spook the man - before finding the ropes and tugging them from the bag, holding them up for Dumo’s inspection. “I’m gonna get you naked, now,” Tom says. “That okay?”

“It’s - yeah, it’s okay.”

Normally he’d make the guy strip; Tom enjoys the show, watching how they take off their clothes, fast and eager or almost shyly. It tells him a lot about the guy’s state of mind. But here, he wants to touch Dumo, run his fingers and mouth everywhere as Tom strips him. He starts with Dumo’s shirt, pushing it up over his head, hands pressed close to his chest and then up his arms as he goes. He lingers a moment after the shirt is off, a light touch with his fingertips along Dumo’s chest and stomach, the soft hair trailing promisingly down below his belly and underneath his waistband. Tom makes sure to keep up a steady stream of approving noises, like each thing he touches or uncovers is the most magnificent thing he’s ever seen.

Pants are next, and Tom kneels for it, working them slowly down Dumo’s thick thighs, nails scraping as he does so. He kisses above the soft trail of hair on his stomach, right above where Brian’s boxers sit, and then pulls those down too. Much like in the video from last night, Dumo is hard, painfully and obviously hard. He’s on the hairy side, but he’s at least decently trimmed up, and Tom wonders again who he’s been cleaning up for. The thought of Kris Letang finding out they’ve fucked, blowing his top in jealousy, sends a thrill of pleasure up Tom’s spine. “So big,” he purrs, gently cupping Dumo in a loose fist, and Brian bucks a little into his hand. “And so responsive, mm?”

“Sorry. Just, uh. Feels good.”

“Don’t _apologize,”_ Tom says, smiling up. “It’s nice. I like it. Refreshing, being with a man who isn’t afraid to show that he likes something.”

Even that small bit of praise makes Dumo smile, and suddenly Tom can’t wait to see him tied. He reaches backwards, unspooling the rope, and setting a pair of safety scissors within reach and very deliberately in front of Dumo. Tom gets enough shit for legal hockey plays; he can only imagine what would happen if he accidentally hurt an opposing player off the ice. “Turn around for me,” he says, and Dumo obeys immediately, pressing his stomach against the wall. “Arms behind your back. No, don’t cross your wrists.”

Tom pulls Dumo’s arms apart, gently, leaving his wrists a few inches away from each other. He doesn’t want them so tight that Brian’s shoulders will be shot and useless if he plays tomorrow. Just by holding his wrists, Tom can tell he’s nervous, a little tense, so he presses his mouth to that area, tongue flat against the warm pulse fluttering there. He kisses around the radius, sucking at the bump of the wrist bone, then back tracing his tongue along the visible blue vein running up his palm. It’s enough for Brian to sag a little, relaxing at the soft touches and wet kisses.

“Just relax, beautiful,” Tom murmurs, sliding the rope gently around Dumo’s body, starting on a dragonfly, which will bind Dumo’s arms behind his back, keeping them enough apart that it shouldn’t wrench his shoulders painfully. Based on the video from last night, Tom already knows Dumo isn’t terribly vocal about shit he doesn’t like, so he goes slowly, checking joints and pinch points as he goes, making sure everything is snug but not too tight.

It takes a long time, any sort of good rope work does. Tom’s often a little too impatient for it, prefers cuffs and bars and chains, as it gives the same bondage situations for much less work. But here, it gives him exactly what he’s looking for: a lot of gentle, unhurried touch. There’s ample opportunity to go slow, sliding his fingers along the wrapped rope, fingertips moving from rough and calloused skin to soft and sensitive areas and back as he goes.

By the time he’s done, Dumo is slumped against the wall, head bowed and pressed there like it’s all been too much. Tom kisses the exposed area between the shoulder blades, taking a half step back. “Turn around, sweetheart. Let me see you.”

Tom’s bright smile is genuine, not just for Dumo’s benefit, when he turns. “Oh, yeah,” he murmurs approvingly. Even though Brian’s bound arms are not visible from the front, the foundation ropes across his chest and up his pelvis strain with every fidget and movement. Tom’s glad he brought the black ropes and not his normal red ones. Brian is flushed red enough as it is, a pinkish hue all the way down to his stomach, and his eyelids are heavy, drooped low. “How does that feel?”

Dumo’s swallow is audible. “Good,” he says, voice a rough gravel.

“So pretty. You didn’t fidget or wiggle at _all,”_ Tom praises, stepping up with a kiss. Dumo sighs heavily into his mouth and Tom wonders how many times he can make this guy come this afternoon. He clearly has nobody that does these types of things for him, and he’s still so hard, cock bobbing heavily against Tom’s thigh.

No time like the present for the first one. Tom sinks back to his knees and licks a wet line up Dumo’s cock, and Brian wobbles on his feet, unable to lean back against the wall without putting too much pressure on his bound arms. Tom can’t give any encouragement or praise with a mouthful of dick, but he touches instead, letting his mouth do all the work while he wanders his fingertips all over Dumo’s inner thighs, hips, stomach. Dumo wobbles more, unsteady, lips squeezed shut to stifle his noises.

“I want to hear you,” Tom admonishes, gently, pulling off for just a moment. “Please? It’s so hot when you’re loud. You sound so sexy.”

“Yeah?” Dumo’s panting, eyes locked downward on Tom’s.

“Hell yeah. Be loud for me, baby.”

Dumo _is_ loud, when he lets himself be, loud enough that Tom thinks the neighboring townhouse might hear. It’s almost loud enough that on anyone else, he’d think it was fake. It’s very obviously real, though, based on Dumo’s expression, and that gets Tom a little chubbed up. It’s a nice ego stroke. “Fuck,” Brian wheezes, once, before bucking and coming in Tom’s mouth with these cute little breathy whines.

He hangs his head while Tom pulls off and looks up with a frown. Dumo looks almost disappointed. “What?” Tom asks around a mouthful of come, still holding it in his cheek. “What’s wrong?”

“Just, uh. Didn’t want to come yet.”

 _Oh._ “Do you think we’re finished, sweetheart,” Tom laughs, not really a question, pulling back to his feet. “We are far from finished, I promise you.” He yanks Dumo close again and kisses him, tongue coated with come as he pushes it into Brian’s mouth. For an unexpected snowball, Dumo takes it like a champ, doesn’t jerk away or make a disgusted noise. “See how good you taste?” Tom asks against his mouth, letting a little dribble out and roll down his chin. Dumo watches its slow slide, then leans forward and licks at it while Tom laughs, delighted.

Next, he walks Dumo over to the couch, pushing back the coffee table and setting one of the couch cushions on the floor. Tom settles on the couch so the cushion is between his feet and gestures downward at it. “On your knees, darling. Facing me.”

Dumo tied up on his knees between Tom’s legs is almost indecent, especially with the little speck of come drying on the corner of his mouth. He has no idea why more guys aren’t into this _apology_ thing, because it seems pretty great to him. Hell, Brad Marchand could be having the time of his damn life. “Good boy,” he praises at the ease which Dumo sinks to floor.

He tries to spend just as much time simply _touching_ Dumo as it took to tie him up. Tom runs his nails along Dumo’s scalp, traces the shell of his ears, lets his fingers ghost over his beard so slow he can practically count the wiry hair. Then down his neck, curving down his bound shoulders, the ropes making little speed bumps as Tom presses down his arms. His back is next, as much as he can get to it with Dumo’s arms in the way, splaying his fingers wide.

Tom pulls back to press his thumb against Dumo’s mouth, gently. “Suck,” he commands, and Dumo’s mouth falls open, lets him shove his finger inside. When it’s nice and wet, he withdraws it and pushes it against Dumo’s nipple, stroking feather-soft until the digit is dry, then wets it in Dumo’s mouth again and repeats.

By the time Tom is done touching everything he can reach, Brian’s head is pillowed on the inside of Tom’s thigh, pliant and boneless under his touch. “Hey, honey, up at me,” Tom says, softly, cupping Dumo’s cheek. When Dumo manages to lift his head, it’s all Tom can do not to show his surprise. Brian’s eyes are fuzzy and unfocused, jaw slightly open like he doesn’t have the brain power to keep it closed. “How was that?”

Dumo’s response is an unintelligible groan that was probably meant to be a word. It confirms Tom’s suspicions; Dumo’s in subspace. It’s a mindset typically achieved when a massive amount of endorphins leaves you loopy and incoherent, but Tom’s never seen anyone get there without an ample amount of pain and adrenaline helping those chemicals get released. This is new.

Tom also knows Dumo will agree to anything right now while he’s in subspace. _Anything._

God, it’s tempting as hell, but this _is_ an apology. Still, if he’s going to fuck Dumo - and he is, Tom’s already decided, Brian is in no place right now to answer which he prefers, so Tom will make that executive decision - he needs to get hard, too. “You’re gonna help me out, okay, sweetie?” Tom lovingly strokes Dumo’s cheek, and Brian leans into the touch with a purr. “Such a pretty mouth. Let’s put it to work.”

It’s easy to pull himself free with just a little adjustment. Tom Wilson isn’t much for underwear; just another thing to take off. If he could, he’d just be naked all the time, but the law doesn’t look kindly on that. There should be an exception process for people that look like him, he figures, although that idea hasn’t caught on yet. He scoots forward so Dumo can reach, gently tugging until his chest is pressed up against the couch. “Want that mouth of yours, baby. C’mon, now.”

Dumo’s mouth is warm and wet and _big,_ so even though Tom is only thrusting shallowly, it feels good. Dumo’s still floating in subspace, wrapped in his own little world, so he’s not sucking much. That’s okay. Tom keeps his hands on Dumo’s head and directs him exactly how he likes it, and the whole time he keeps up a steady stream of commentary on how good it’s making him feel, how talented Dumo’s mouth is, what a good boy he’s being. Dumo is at least with it enough that when Tom pulls him off, drool stringing down his chin, he’s smiling at the praise.

“You wanna go to your bedroom?” Tom asks, dragging his thumb through the spit coating Dumo’s chin. “You’re gonna open up so good for me, sweetheart, I can already tell.” Dumo nods, slowly, eyes still glassy.

Tom has to help Brian to his feet - no small event with a bound, groggy, 6’4 professional athlete. He nearly goes down again, knees buckling, so Tom loops an arm around his waist to help keep him upright and starts walking towards the single hallway. He’s not sure where Dumo’s bedroom is, but it’s not exactly hard to guess.

The bed’s unmade, with a few clothes laying on it, and Tom sweeps them to the floor and sets Dumo on the mattress, where he sways but stays upright. At the head of the bed, there are far too many pillows for one man, but it’s perfect right now. He grabs four, piles them up, and maneuvers Dumo to his knees; the pillows are holding up his chest, since his arms are still locked behind his back. “I’ll be right back,” he promises, returning to the living room briefly to grab the scissors, condoms, and lube. Dumo hasn’t even tried to move when he returns. Still delightfully wonked out.

“Honey, what noises are you gonna make when I get my fingers in you, hmm?” Tom supposes it’s a bit of a rhetorical question, since he’ll find the answer out soon enough. Dumo just mumbles, arches his back towards Tom. It’s a pretty enough sight that he yanks out his phone and snaps a few pictures, takes advantage of Dumo still being in subspace.

The pictures are fantastic. Blissed out, flushed red, back arched and ass sticking up, Dumo makes a hell of a pose. He thinks briefly for a moment about taking video, but decides against it at the last minute, tosses his phone on the end table instead.

“I’ve been looking forward to this ever since I walked in the door,” Tom says, and that much at least is the truth. He warms up the lube between his fingers, not wanting anything to bring Dumo out of his relaxed and permissive state. The press of Tom’s fingers leads to the first uncomfortable moan from Dumo all day, and Tom stills them, kissing up each nub of his spine for as high as he can reach, then leaning to each side to nip and suck at the soft skin along his hips. Only when Brian is calm and slumped against the pillows does he move his fingers again, slowly inching them forward.

This is not something Dumo does often, Tom can tell, based on the way he moves, the sounds he makes, the way he needs to use more and more and _more_ lube. “I’m gonna make you feel so good, sweetheart,” Tom promises, kissing the base of his spine. “But you have to relax for me and open up, okay? You’ve been so good, so so _so_ good up to now. I know you can do it.”

Dumo nods, shifting back a little onto Tom’s fingers. “I can,” he mumbles, sounding almost delirious. “I can. I want to, I can.”

“I know you can, honey,” Tom repeats, sliding his hand up Dumo’s back to grab his hand, tangle his fingers with Brian’s. Dumo holds onto him like a lifeline, squeezing hard. “You’re so sweet for me.”

Dumo makes a punched out, broken sound when Tom grazes his fingers along his prostate. One of his legs jerks back, reflexively, kicking Tom right in the hip. It doesn’t particularly hurt, but it’s also not particularly acceptable. “Hey now,” Tom scolds, gently, fingers stilled inside. “You kicked me.”

“Sorry. M’sorry, really.” He _does_ sound truly sorry. Embarrassed, even. He hangs his head off the edge of the pillows like a scolded puppy and Tom almost finds it endearing.

“I know you are, but you can’t do that again. Do you need my help?”

“Help…?”

“I can help to make sure you don’t kick me again. I can help you be good.” He slides his fingers out and climbs off the bed for another two lengths of rope. Dumo stares at him, expression naked with want.

“Yes, please,” he says, at the sight of the ropes.

Tom grabs one of the laundry items he swept off the bed earlier - a Penguins shirt - and wipes his lube-slicked fingers off on it with some measure of satisfaction. Dumo doesn’t even complain, even though he’s watching closely. Again, Tom remembers he could do just about anything right now, but...well, he’ll get what he wants regardless, which is Brian whining his name underneath him.

The next two ropes are meant for his legs, one for each, to bind the calf and thigh together. It takes a lot more rope and time than it normally does - hockey player thighs are thick, and Dumo’s a big boy on top of that - but he stays still, passive and submissive while Tom is winding the ropes, which makes it go easier. There is not even a hint of a struggle. Tom rewards him by lifting his bound leg up and kissing the soles of his feet, up to his toes and sucking them into his mouth. Now there’s a bit of a struggle; Tom can feel the leg jerk against the bonds, the foot trembling in his mouth, but Dumo pushes past the ticklishness and surrenders to the warm heat after a long moment with a soft sigh.

“You make such a pretty sight, darling,” Tom tells him, helping Dumo shift on the pillows as he no longer has any limbs free. He sets Brian up so his legs are splayed wide, chest bent over the pillows, forehead touching the bed, ass in the air. “You don’t have to hold back, now. I’m gonna drive you a little crazy with my fingers, but you can thrash and whine and do whatever you feel you have to do. You’re not going anywhere.”

Tom’s fingers slip in easier, now, with a fresh coat of lube, and he wastes no time in curling them against Dumo’s prostate. His legs jerk again, uselessly; Tom can hear the ropes creak around his legs as he tries to move, but it’s futile. Tom rubs his fingers on that spot, over and over again, a slow and continuous motion. All the while, the little whimpers that started soft are getting louder, more urgent, and then the arm bonds are straining too as he’s overstimulated and trying to fidget, or wiggle away, or something. All Dumo can do is take it, though. Tom keeps it up for a long time, a slow torture.

 _“Please,”_ Dumo whimpers into the bedspread, head rolling back and forth in almost a desperate tic. He almost sounds like he’s going to cry. Tom finds that possibility _very_ intriguing. “Please, I need...need…”

“What do you need, hon?”

“Please touch me.” Dumo does crack, then, the word _touch_ punctuated by a small sob. Would it be bad form to break Dumo during his apology?

God, so tempting.

“Oh, babydoll, I can’t have you coming _yet,”_ Tom tells him, withdrawing his fingers slowly. “Don’t you want to wait till I’m inside you? I would like that very much.”

Dumo inhales a large, shuddery breath. “Hurry. Please,” he says, and his voice is quavery.

“I will. I promise,” Tom nods, and moves to keep his word. He uses Dumo’s Pens shirt as a towel again before shucking his clothes, ripping open the condom with his mouth and rolling it on.

Dumo’s fists are clenching and unclenching in an effort to distract himself from what Tom can tell is probably an uncomfortably straining erection. He leans down, spits on Dumo’s hole, rubs it in with his thumb; probably a little overkill, since Dumo is already sloppy with lube. Tom slides in easily, but Brian’s still tight and hot even after the extensive finger fucking. “God, that’s nice. You’re so pretty like this,” Tom murmurs, and Dumo answers with a low growl and a push backwards.

Tom wants to go fast. Tom wants to _wreck_ him, watch Dumo cry and scream while he struggles uselessly against the ropes, the heavy sound of flesh smacking flesh. But he can’t; they both have a game tomorrow. The tempo he sets is fast, but not punishing. He drapes his body gently over Dumo’s back and bound arms as he thrusts, mouth close to Dumo’s ear. “You’re taking it so well. I’m going to touch you now, sweetheart,” he says, and Dumo chokes back a cry, nodding furiously. “And you’re going to come and squeeze all around me, aren’t you?”

More frantic nodding, no words.

Tom gets a hand underneath, keeps his fist still around Dumo’s cock and lets the natural rock of their bodies jerk him off. “Such a good little slut for me,” Tom growls, and the words are barely out of his mouth before Dumo jerks back and comes with a mewl, shaking. Tom fucks him through his orgasm and pulls out just as he’s cresting the edge, crawling up and kneeling in front of Dumo’s face, which is buried in the bedsheets. “Up, sweetie, c’mon,” Tom urges as he gets rid of the condom. Dumo looks up blearily. “Open your mouth for me, hm?”

It takes a moment - Dumo’s brain still isn’t fully working - but he does as requested, opening up wide while Tom jerks himself off. He tries to aim for Brian’s mouth, but when he opens his eyes back up after his orgasm shudders through, there’s a healthy stripe of come on Dumo’s cheek and a little splatter on his chin. Tom scrapes a finger through the come and pushes it into Dumo’s mouth, where he sucks it off, obediently. He repeats with Brian’s chin, until he’s fed all of it to Dumo.

He brushes his softening cock against Dumo’s mouth and is licked clean there, as well. “Oh, honey,” Tom grins, petting his hair. “Such wasted potential, you are. God, you would be the _perfect_ fuck toy for somebody, you know that? You’re so eager, so willing. So fucking _easy._ You should tell that D partner of yours, you know. I see the way he looks at you. Bet he’d love to train you.”

“Kris?” Dumo’s a little clearer-eyed, now, frowning at the suggestion.

“I won’t tell him, I _promise_. Just, you - this - it’s a goddamn shame to waste such a sweet sub. S’all I’m saying.” Dumo makes a noncommittal grunt, and Tom scoots up, starting to unknot the ropes. He goes slowly, carefully, releasing the pressure inch by inch, first his arms and then each leg. Dumo lays boneless, on the bed, exhausted. “Stay here,” Tom says - a silly command, Dumo isn’t going anywhere. He checks the fridge and comes back with a Gatorade, making Brian sit up a little and drink. He chugs half the bottle and flops back down.

“Almost done. Just relax,” Tom says, and digs the heel of his palm into Dumo’s shoulder blades, earning a soft cry. He rolls his hands, massaging and pushing into all the spots where he was tied - his shoulders, down his arms, then his thighs and calves. He’s just about to order Brian to roll over when he catches the man’s face. Eyes closed, mouth slightly open, starting to snore. He’s out.

“I take it you’ve accepted my apology, then,” Tom announces to a snore, redressing quickly. He grabs his phone and takes one more picture, and hopes like hell Dumo is going to play tomorrow. It’s almost the best part - seeing whatever man has accepted his apology the next time, on the ice, locking eyes with them and watching them blush, remembering what they just did to Tom. Or what Tom did to them.

Tomorrow, during warm ups, he’s going to catch Dumo’s eye and give him a slow, lazy smile, and Dumo is going to remember being fucked, remember Tom’s come all over his face. Remember being tied up, at Tom’s mercy. Remember begging for it.

Tom can’t _wait_ to see his expression.

**Author's Note:**

> Potential sequel with Dom!Letang and sub!Dumoulin...I'm thinking about it.


End file.
